Critique They Will
Our work unseen sometimes not read
But some who do, critique to shreds
Words given those who write of me
Poets my own, I have decreed
The message given to those who write
Of my will always will fight
A war not seen, even by them
Against many we may offend
Family and friends will probably say
You go too far and stay away
From you who writes of a King
That wears no crown, condones suffering
Their hearts don't wear, loves attire
That's short for me who kindles fires
Inside of all who keep me first
Whose cup I fill each day they thirst
You need not be a scribe of old
To spell my message as I've foretold
Just be the one who walks the walk
With words our own, of me They'll talk
Before too long our efforts will drill
Into a soul for me to fill
The emptiness of that someone
Who'll call me father and I'll call son
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